


In The Sun(Over The Shadow)

by NotRyanRoss



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Music RPF
Genre: Imaginary Friends, Implied Non-Con, Implied pedophilia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Self-Harm, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotRyanRoss/pseuds/NotRyanRoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was eleven when he first met Peter Kingston Wentz III. And that's where it all began. A short, incoherent tale of mental anguish and isolation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eleven

He was eleven when he first met Peter Kingston Wentz III.

Or Pete, as he preferred.

Patrick had been sent to the doctor for a broken arm when it happened. This in itself wasn't that unusual; the boys at his school (dark red, sharp bursts of pipe organs) weren't exactly friendly and pushing him off of the first-story balcony wasn't above them. He'd been shoved into lockers, beaten up, called words he refused to repeat, even in his mind. This was the first time they'd caused harm he wasn't able to hide, and his mother hadn't been impressed. Patrick had cradled his broken arm, huddling in the chair in the office as his mother cast disappointed looks at him among talking quietly to the principal. When they'd left a minute later, she had bundled him into the car and sighed heavily.

"Why have you got to aggravate them so," she said quietly.

Patrick just stared at her with wide, uncomprehending eyes until she turned back to start the car. He remained silent; he had done so ever since he had been put to school five years before. He wasn't mute by any stretch, but he didn't like speaking words. Music was better. He could communicate so much more through a progression on the piano or a rhythm on the guitar.

If only people understood instead of calling him names.

When his mother pulled him into the waiting room, she immediately ordered him to sit in the corner as she approached the front desk, looking decidedly turquoise in manner. He looked at his uninjured hand and wiggled his fingers slightly, watching them flatly. He didn't look at the broken arm, curled against the soft material of his sweater. It was going to be inconvenient to play now. Couldn't they have broken his leg instead?

Somewhere in the depths of his mind he was desperately glad at least the physical pain had been dulled by the pills he'd been given.

His mother motioned for him to come, and he did so, staring up at her as an older man that reminded him of burnt honey joined them. He smiled at Patrick, but Patrick didn't smile back.

"The doctor's going to take care of your arm now, alright honey?"

Patrick nodded in affirmation and began to follow the man down the hall.

He spaced out for the actual procedure, occupied by the sharp crashes of orange and the sound of tinsel rustling within his mind. He was pretty sure he'd been thinking about the wing structure of a crow, and the crumpling of a brown paper bag, and the smell of latex burning. The doctor patted his leg gently and he flinched away, giving the man an accusing look. The doctor backed off, telling him some gibberish about caring for the arm, but it all filtered through to sound in Patrick's mind.

Then, the doctor left him there.

Patrick stared at the closed door for a moment and then swung his legs. If he sat in the right position, he could make the drumbeat to that show that had been on television yesterday. Just edge a little left, and-

"What'cha doin'?"

His wide, stunned eyes landed on a boy leaning against the wall.

He couldn't have been too much older than Patrick, maybe a couple years or so that was accentuated by the smudged black around his dark eyes. He was kind of small, but in a thin sort of way instead of plump like Patrick himself. His dark hair was falling in his face, overgrown like the grass in that one spot of the garden. His jeans were ripped, almost shredded at the knees, and his shirt was stained with all manners of colours.

He was kind of imperfect in a beautiful way, and the air he gave off was one of a sharp, blinding yellow and the crispness of underripe lettuce.  
Patrick stared at him.

The boy seemed unfazed, making his way across the room to seat himself next to Patrick. His feet didn't touch the ground either, swaying slightly like branches in the breeze.

"So, what beat were you trying to do?"

Normally Patrick wouldn't even attempt to communicate with anyone, let alone a random stranger. But there was something about this boy that just seemed _different_ , almost unnatural in that sort of way that tempted you to do bad things and not regret it in the slightest.

Patrick tapped out a beat on his thigh, not breaking eye contact with the boy.

He grinned. "Is that Bowie?"

And that was how it began.

He _understood._

Time passed.

His name was Peter Kingston Wentz III, and he was fifteen. He knew most of the beats that Patrick played for him, even singing along, albeit badly. He liked bass guitar, liked the thrum of the strings and the shine of the instrument. He liked superheros, and coloured in his nails with Sharpie. One time he'd seen a bird die, and he thought the blood was pretty in its tiny ribbons from the broken body. He came here because they thought something was wrong with his brain, he said. He wasn't _normal._

Patrick tilted his head.

"Normal's...well...it's how people _want_ you to be? Like, they want us all to be perfect for society, but not for ourselves."

Patrick tapped his index finger on Pete's hand.

Pete smiled at him. "You have to be perfect for yourself, Trick. No one else."

Patrick paused for a moment, then tapped again.

"It does sound selfish, yeah, but that's not a bad thing."

Patrick went to tap again, but Pete linked their fingers together instead. For some reason Patrick himself wasn't sure of, he allowed the hand holding. Pete tilted his head up to gaze at the blank ceiling with something unreadable in his face, something that made Patrick think of the feel of glue on his fingertips and the colour green.

"Shh," Pete said in a murmur. "No need to be so loud."

Patrick let his shoulders relax.

"Better," Pete said softly.

When his mother came to retrieve him, not apologising for leaving him alone for so long, Pete had left, Patrick's address scrawled on his hand in a spidery sprawl. There was something fluttering in his stomach, something like the sound of the D note on the piano.

He didn't speak.

He didn't have to.

A few days later there was a rap on his window, the beat to something new and mysterious. When he looked up, Pete was there in all his dark glory, wiggling his fingers at him.

Patrick got up to open it.


	2. Twelve

He was twelve when Peter Kingston Wentz III made say his first word in nearly three years.

"I'm bisexual," he'd said.

They were sitting together at the time, on a fallen log that sounded like the crunch of stepping on a wrapper. Pete had just said it into the warm afternoon air, matter-of-fact and just as bright gold as he'd been the day they'd met. Patrick didn't really understand. He flapped his left hand at Pete, pointing at the dark denim of the older's jeans. For some reason other people didn't know he was referring to the colour when he pointed, but Pete just smiled wearily, eyeliner creasing.

"It's like...you know how boys are supposed girls and get married and have kids?"

Patrick tapped once.

"Yeah, well, I don't care whether I date boys or girls. It's like the eyeliner, it's something sort of...indigo?"

Patrick nodded and pointed to himself before nodding furiously again.

Pete laughed, but it had a tint of dented iron in it. "Sure, Trickster. You can be bi too, it's not a secret club or anything."

Patrick tapped Pete's thigh twice.

"Fine," he replied with a chuckle. "We can have a two-person bi club."

Patrick smiled for the first time in years.

His mother didn't quite understand where he went, or why he disappeared into the forest to wander instead of "talking to that nice boy, Joseph, across the street." Patrick didn't like the smell that hung in that boy's room, like distraction and cobwebs. Pete was much better, with his bright aura and knowing eyes, even if he was apparently too  
old for Patrick. To him, it just meant that Pete could teach him things, things his parents wouldn't talk about with him, and the _way_ Pete talked, understanding Patrick's language of taps and colours and turning them back into words. Why couldn't other people understand him? Pete made it look easy.

He patted Pete's hand gently, and it accidentally made his sleeve ride up.

His wrists, delicate and dark, were dark red, sluggish and unsettled. Patrick lifted his face to stare at Pete flatly, making the older look away for a moment. He seemed more... _green_ , and that was when he knew something was wrong with Pete.

He tapped on a thin slash insistently, making Pete's eyeliner crease as he cringed.

"It's...um..." he started hesitantly.

Patrick rubbed a hand across his leg, patting softly and gazing up at Pete. Pete gave him a fragile smile that looked as if it would crackle and break away at any moment, and it made him feel like the ground was moving underneath his sneakers.

Pete started speaking again.

"Sometimes life's hard. It's hard, and it hurts, and it sucks. But it's like that Schrodinger's cat thing, how the cat's in the box but you can't tell if it's dead or just asleep. You gotta go forward, open the fucking box, or you're never going to know. Even if the cat's dead, and something horrible is happening, you've gotta see it because you can't just ignore the world, as much as you want to, even if you feel like you need to, what you need to do is open that box."

Pete paused when Patrick laid a hand on his wrist again, avoiding the cuts as he rubbed a thumb gently next to them.

"Blue," Patrick said, voice soft. He didn't know what the 'normal' word for blue was, but it didn't matter with Pete. His voice was rough with disuse, and broke in the middle of the word, but as he choked it out of his tight throat, Pete gave him a wide-eyed, stunning grin, and it was all worth it.

Patrick's heart faltered in its beat, erratically bumping at his ribs. It was unsettling but exciting, like finding a spider and holding it upon your palm with the knowledge that even as a small creature it had killed many, and devoured them. Pete just kept grinning at him, face all lit up and haloed by the sunlight filtering through the leaves, and for once, Patrick felt like maybe he had a purpose, even if it was just to listen to this damaged boy with shadows in his eyes and his heart on a wrist who had a ridiculous laugh.

"Blue," Pete repeated finally. "Blue, Trick. You don't have to apologise to me, it's just how it all worked out for me. 's not your fault I'm all broken and beige."

"P-" he broke off to cough, the word sliding up his dry esophagus and scratching, clawing at his skin. Pete remained silent while he coughed, running a hand up his spine gently and coaxing him to speak again. When he sat up, still shaky in his breaths, he tapped a finger on Pete's chest decisively and stared up into those dark amber eyes with a spark of his own.

"Perfect," he said hoarsely, with a note in his tone that was orange and allowed no argument.

Pete began to cry.

Patrick comforted him, arms around his shaking back, and thought to himself about how those wounds on his friend's gentle wrists would turn to pale rows of scars like a cornfield in the summer.

"Perfect," he breathed again.


	3. Thirteen

He was thirteen when he realised Peter Kingston Wentz III was his only friend.

"Trick! I've got the coolest thing ever, come see," he said insistently.

"Busy," he grunted at him from a particularly large pile of work. Pete was completely unfazed, as usual, and simply swung his legs over the windowsill into Patrick's room. This had become a regular occurrence over time, Pete showing up exactly when his parents weren't home and talking until Patrick talked back.

He still didn't speak at school, but Pete was different.

Pete was _Pete,_ and that made all the difference.

"I got a tattoo!"

Patrick stopped what he was doing and swung around in his chair, nearly falling in the process. He still preferred not to speak, because his mother had a tendency to look unsettled when he did, even now. But Pete understood anyway, thank goodness. So, instead of speaking, he fixed the older boy with a dark stare. Pete just grinned back, the fireflies in his eyes flashing as he displayed the ink and scarred flesh proudly, unbandaged.

"Why," Patrick forced out.

"I needed to," came the reply.

Pete stepped closer, allowing Patrick to slide his hands along the raised skin and sharp lines with hardly a wince. It was pretty, in a fiercely painful sort of way that reminded him of the G note on the piano. It almost felt like the noise was emanating from the art itself, like he could hear someone tuning their acoustic gently in the lines. It was kind of shocking to the senses.

Kind of like Pete, then.

Instead of talking back, he tapped out the drum line to a Guns And Roses song on his desk. Pete lit up like the sun in the middle of the day.

"It's not just that, though," Pete replied. "It's the-"

Patrick huffed, interrupting him, and let his fingernails turn into a monotonous tapping.

Pete settled himself on the bed and stretched out, lithe and weirdly graceful in his own way. Patrick continued his tapping until Pete blinked his eyes open again and focused on him, tapping back against the wall. He paused then, looking back at the dark-haired being on his mattress.

"C'mere, Trick," Pete murmured, rolling so there was a Patrick-sized space on the sheets.

He let out a long-suffering sigh and got up, leg muscles creaking in protest as he did. Pete watched with calm, dark eyes as he made his way to the bed and toed off his shoes, shifting them with his feet so they were neat. Patrick ignored the tiny snort of amusement this procured and crawled onto the bed with him, quietly enjoying the contact of Pete hooking a leg over his knees and pulling him closer. Patrick wanted to shove him away, but he was also kind of orange and warm and...

_Safe_?

When he opened his eyes again his glasses were next to him on his pillow and the light had gone from dusky blue to dark orange. He grabbed for his glasses but found one of his hands occupied; that is, with dark, lithe fingers. When Pete slipped into focus Patrick spent a moment just gazing at him, at the delicate arch of his back and the way his dark eyes flickered like a candle in the breeze. He was kneeling, one hand in Patrick's while the other scrawled busily on the beige surface of the wall.

The writing was near illegible, shaped like a spider's legs or the spine of a snake. It was shattered and incomprehensible and a perfect reflection of Pete's mental condition written in unkempt lead pencil. Patrick watched silently as he continued to shape letters about the canvas he'd made for himself. Pete's fringe had begun to curl in the autumn warmth, just creeping into gentle waves instead of the dead, sharp angles he usually possessed. It felt as if he were bleeding the sharpness into the words, giving it a piece of his life force.

Patrick sat up and Pete turned, a brief smile on his face, and it felt like home. He pressed his lips to Patrick's cheek and Patrick felt the smile more than saw it, felt the shine and light it gave off.

"I thought you'd like it," he said quietly. "It's for you."

"...thank, thank you," Patrick answered.

Then the crunch of a car pulling into the driveway made them both flinch, even though Patrick flinched _towards_ Pete. Pete just wrapped a lean arm around him gently and pressed them together for a split second before rising to his feet.

Pete let out a bray of laughter and reached out one scarred hand to him, making his way over to the window again. Patrick looked down at his hand, then to his own, then back. He felt a flicker of white in the back of his eye and the corners of his lips tilted down fractionally.

"Come with," Pete said softly.

"I...I can't," Patrick answered, just as quiet.

Pete let out a quiet breath and nodded to himself.

"I'm sorry," Patrick said.

"I know," Pete replied.

And he was gone.

Patrick felt a funny sort of emptiness in his gut, until he looked to the side, to the wall that held a couple of brief sentences like a woman with a diamond ring. A soft, gentle sigh escaped his lips.

_They say your head can be a prison I'm in love with my own sins Mister Sandman showing his demons And this crystal ball is always cloudy Erase myself and let go start it over again I've got troubled thoughts and the self esteem to match-_

"Patrick Vaughn Stumph, what _have_ you done to your wall?!"

"Pete," he said absently, touching the letters.


	4. Fourteen

He was fourteen when Peter Kingston Wentz III got him taken to the psychologist.

"Honey," his mother said, so sweetly and uncharacteristic that his head began thrumming with warning suddenly and he immediately sat back in his seat a little, shirking away. He didn't see the effort of replying worth it when she was going to keep speaking anyway, so he didn't speak, choosing to look out the window apprehensively as shapes and colours whipped by.

"We're going to go and see a nice man," she continued. "His name is Doctor Armstrong, and he's going to talk to you about...things."

"Things?"

She still started a little at his voice, even now.

"Honey, you need to...you need to talk about your 'friend.'"

He could hear the apostrophes in her tone, and turned away, choosing to stare out the window to watch the cars drive past maniacally. This was what really made him question his life, people trying to fit him into categories, trying to tell him he was wrong just because he didn't.

"This is about Pete," he said flatly.

His mother didn't reply.

He had guessed right, then. But what was wrong with Pete? He was Patrick's friend, made of sunshine and energy and excitement. He wasn't constantly offering him alcohol and the green-distraction-stuff like 'Joseph,' he didn't touch him inappropriately or insult him or hurt him. Pete was, in Patrick's opinion, only able to harm himself, hurting Patrick was unthinkable. What could his mother possibly be concerned about?

He didn't get it, everything was always so goddamn _lime_ with her. Always the slimy yellow, always the...rejection, Pete called it. Faking. That's what he always answered with when Patrick talked about his parents, about how his mom was always so unsettled and how he'd spoken a full sentence to her about his homework a week ago and she'd gone white and left the room immediately.

"Here we are," his mother said, her voice like honey left too long in the sun, and Patrick tried not to shudder as he got out of the car and was lead to the building. The alarms in his head rose to a tuneless din that crashed against the side of his skull and made it ache. This was wrong, it was all so _wrong_ this wasn't good it was bad it was all wrong _terriblewrongbad_ -

"Hello, Patrick," the doctor greeted him, in that green- _fake_ \- friendly way all doctors had.

_I want Pete_ , he thought desperately, a trickle of ice water down his spine.

"Hello," he said instead, in a flat tone, ignoring his mother's flinch. The doctor seemed to notice, and wrote something down before motioning for Patrick to follow him down the hall ringing with drumbeats and orange. His mother didn't follow them, and he didn't expect or want her to. He was pointed to a chair he didn't want to sit in, and shook his head until the doctor insisted in a firm voice. Then he almost fell into the seat.

"So. Your mother is worried about you, Patrick."

Patrick didn't answer.

"Who is Peter, Patrick?"

"...my friend."

"Where did you meet?"

"Hospital."

"When was this?"

"Three...three years."

"I see. Why does Peter write on your bedroom walls?"

"He doesn't...he doesn't want me to be lonely."

" _Are_ you lonely, Patrick? Is that why you made up Peter?"

"... _what?!"_

"I don't think Peter's real, Patrick. I think you made him up because your mother has rejected you, and you have no other friends, is that right?"

"N-no, I-"

"Do you have any friends, Patrick?"

" _Pete_."

"Peter doesn't exist, Patrick. Do you have any friends?"

"I...I..."

"I'll take that as a no. I can see why you made Pete up, Patrick, but he's making you do bad things."

" _No._ "

"Yes, Patrick. You've graffiti'd your entire house with these...unsettling words. Tell me, what does 'I will never end up like him' refer to? Your mother mentioned you have a strained relationship with your father, is that what-"

" _No_!"

Patrick let out a wordless snarl as the doctor attempted to come closer, the chair trapping him like a cage, silver and painful. It felt like his soul was being sliced as he attempted to scrabble away, tipping the chair over and tumbling painfully to the ground. His head turned into static and red, painful red as it connected with the hard tile and he curled up into a ball, crying in fear for _Pete, please, Pete, help me._

The doctor stood over him, looming. A sharklike smile ripped his face.

"I'll see you next week," he said.

Patrick all but ran to the car, and, when his mother drove him home, outside. Away.

Pete was less than happy when he saw the bruise forming on Patrick's forehead. Patrick had no idea what it looked like to other people, it just hurt. His eyes darkened and he stood up from the log he'd been perched on. Patrick took a moment to register his expression as a white-blue and shirked away a little. 

"Who did this?" His voice was cold, icily so, and Patrick nearly wilted in the face of it.

" _Pete_ ," he said helplessly, imploring the older with his eyes until Pete's shoulders relaxed fractionally and he pulled Patrick so they were pressed up, chest to thigh. Pete's breath brushed his ear gently, and he grabbed onto his sweater with more force than necessary, clinging.

"Shh," Pete said, soft as the breaths ruffling his hair.

"Pete," Patrick said miserably into the warmth of his shoulder.

Pete ran a hand up his back and Patrick melted into the contact. And the entire time, all he could think of was how could this possibly be _fake?_


	5. Fifteen

_*Warning- chapter contains implied pedophilia and suicide attempt_

He was fifteen when he realised Peter Kingston Wentz III didn't exist.

Patrick was tired.

So very, very tired.

It had been a particularly bad day at the doctor's office, one where his mother had made the session longer and far more pressuring because he'd ran away to Pete every day this week. Doctor Armstrong hadn't improved with time, senselessly beating at Patrick's mind with whatever he could use, and sometimes his body. Some days he felt like the man was ripping his brain apart and tossing away the pieces that made him who he was. He left the place half-empty and hurting like nothing his peers had ever done.

And the doctor kept telling him Pete wasn't real.

It was so _hard._

So hard that he wanted to give up, to just...go away. Sleep forever. Leave all this crap behind. Maybe just go away, disappear into the inky depths of his mind and abandon his body.

_"Come with."_

_"I...I can't."_

He let out a long breath and fell back against the wall of the doctor's office. Doctor Armstrong approached him with his favourite cane in hand, and Patrick just watched bitterly as he gave it a test swing, the snap against his palm loud in the silence. He didn't scream, or cry out, or beg for the man to stop beating him with burning, empty lashes.

He just sat there and took it. Let the man whip the stick against his chest, against his face and neck, didn't say a word when Dr Armstrong ripped his pants open, stayed silent through the whole ordeal.

Because he was _tired._

So very tired.

"Now, now, Patrick, do you feel better?"

He didn't reply to the man's chuckle.

The jingle of his belt being done up almost hurt his ears, and he stood himself upright. His pants were torn in some places and they screamed at him, yelled their pain as if he could defend himself and he should have. Instead, he pulled them over his sizzling skin and stood quietly, waiting for the doctor to open the door and allow him to return home. 

"Do you admit Peter is a lie yet?"

Patrick met his gaze steadily.

"I'll take that as a no. One day you'll stop being a crazy whore."

He didn't answer, following the doctor out of the hallway and to his mother. The woman eyed the new bruises across his face and neck but didn't comment, looking at Dr Armstrong and nodding in greeting before turning to leave, Patrick following.

The car ride was silent, as usual.

Which didn't help the slowly building panic in his gut. He fiddled, picking at the skin on his fingers and staring at the blood seeping from the abrasions. He felt sick, the nausea rising up from his feet past his mouth and drowning him in its sick turquoise flow. He couldn't breathe, couldn't do much of anything but think of a way to escape.

Pete.

Pete was his escape.

He opened the car door while they were still pulling in and shoved himself out of the vehicle roughly, falling on the gravel and scraping his palms and knees but not caring. He rose to his feet and ran. Ran like there was nothing else, because Pete was his only lifeline. He ran straight to their secret meeting spot, tripping over the log and sprawling to the ground once again. But once he raised his head, his heart dropped to the ground and shattered.

Because Pete wasn't here.

It didn't make sense, because Pete was _always_ here. Every day without fault, standing there or writing something in a notebook or rolling in the leaves, and now he wasn't.

If Pete wasn't here, then...

_Are you lonely, Patrick? Is that why you made up Peter? I think you made him up because your mother has rejected you, and you have no other friends, is that right? You dirty slut, so desperate for affection you can't get from your mother so you make up some weirdo who wouldn't hate you because he's just as fucked up? But that's it. Even if Pete was real..._

"...he wouldn't love me."

He stood, not bothering to wipe the tears freely streaming down his face like waves of pain. It stung against the marks on his face briefly, but the sensation felt muted, empty on the inside like he was, hollow and hurt and tired.

So tired.

So very tired of living like this.

His mother didn't speak to him as he mounted the stairs, didn't comment on the dirt on him or the way he had a pronounced limp or the fact his hands were genuinely coated in layers of dried and fresh blood now. To be honest, Patrick couldn't have cared less.

He found the blades easily enough, even if it took a few minutes for his trembling hands to rip them out. It wasn't fear, just exhaustion that had him twitching as he inspected the razor in his palm. It was cold, silver and impersonal with a sound like an G on the basd guitar.

It was almost too easy to slash the blades across his pale skin.

Because he was tired, and no one cared. No one at all. He was alone in the world, and it wasn't fair, so he'd just have to solve it himself.

If he died, maybe Pete would come back to him.

Patrick fell back on the tiled floor of the bathroom, and shut his eyes.


	6. Sixteen

He was sixteen when he tried to forget Peter Kingston Wentz III.

And failed.

"Mister Stump, what can I serve you for breakfast today?"

"Just eggs if you have them, Maureen. Perhaps some apple. Thank you," he answered.

The attendant nodded, the idea of fruit and egg working for her 'patient's balanced diet' she kept blathering about, and whisked away from him to retrieve his food. He'd lost a lot of weight in here, not due to anything but his lack of appetite and disinterest in all the beige-feeling seafood they had on offer. He didn't like it, honestly. This method of force feeding just made him less interested in eating often, if at all.

Patrick returned his vague stare to his bandaged arms. They were scheduled for changing today at twelve so 'infection' didn't slip in. Honestly, he'd checked and the cuts had mostly healed, so he felt it was in his own words, complete and utter bullshit. He  deduced it was more likely the option that it might trigger the other suicidal patients (pale, drawn teens with hair like straw and voices like pebbles on the ground) to see the ragged scars from his now-thin white wrist up to his elbow. To Patrick, they felt like Bach on violin, not necessarily negative.

Shortly after he'd made the single attempt on his own life with razors, (realising later he should have also medicated to ensure death) the ambulance had been called and he'd been rushed to hospital and had barely survived, which was a shame. He wondered if his mother had really cared enough to call 911 or if a passer-by had seen him wandering bloodsoaked in the forest before the suicide fail. He spent a few long days at the place, never seeing his mother but hearing her voice outside before it was decided.

He'd then been institutionalised.

Dr Armstrong's actions had been revealed through relentless counselling from a tiny, redheaded woman who demanded he call her Hayley instead of Dr Williams. It had turned out that Patrick was not the first, or the only current, victim of the man. From what Hayley had told him later, Dr Armstrong had been convicted of multiple counts of child molestation and abuse, and had been stripped of his title and send to a jail cell somewhere in Minnesota. There had been allegations before Patrick, but the tipping point was that a boy a few years older than him named Andy had suffered a fatal head injury from a particularly hard swing of a desk lamp.

Patrick felt some sympathy for the boy, wished they had been friends. Perhaps in another life, they were. That would be nice, he supposed. A life where it wasn't like a snowball rolling down a hill to inevitable death.

Hayley encouraged him to speak more, but also taught him a few simple gestures in sign language so he wouldn't have to if he didn't want to. She didn't understand why he connected objects,  spaces and people with colours and sounds, hypothesized it might have been something too long to pronounce. She treated it with unmatched interest, writing up a large chart with an attached colour wheel and adding to it as the days swept by.

They spoke about the things he'd faced against the doctor, the pain and distress and fear, spoke about his father, how the man had basically ceased to exist from Patrick's life from the very beginning. And they spoke about his mother, her constant disapproval and insistence, the fact that in her speech about Patrick's confinement she stated her son was a danger to her rather than to himself. Hayley didn't seem very impressed with the woman, but because his mother hadn't hurt him, was just neglectful and selfish, she still had custody. They spoke about feelings, about why Patrick stared at the blank walls with distress and anger, but he never told her exactly why that was the case.

They didn't talk about Pete.

Patrick never spoke once about him.

Didn't talk about the words they shared, didn't talk about the hurt they shared, didn't talk about the love they shared. Patrick tried to tell himself it was because he hated Pete, even as a figment of his imagination, but the truth was, he didn't.

He was in love with an imaginary person.

_Pathetic._ He could hear Dr Armstrong, even now, the word echoing in his ears like a single cymbal, and tried not to shiver at the chill it brought.

But he still refused to talk about it.

"Mister Stump, your food is getting cold."

Patrick looked down at it with veiled contempt, not acknowledging Maureen and her stare, and picked up his fork. If he didn't eat it, the attendants would annoy him until he either gave in and threw it up later out of defiance, or punched their faces in. The eggs were, in fact, already cold, but he swallowed them down anyway, under Maureen's watchful eye.

He didn't think about Pete.

Maureen then gave him his cup of pills, which he swallowed dry, grimacing at the taste, and he returned to his seat. Disgusting. They were just to keep him quiet, anyway. He could throw them up later if needed but he didn't find it necessary.

He didn't think about Pete.

He watched the other people shuffle in a line for the pills, the sight like someone falling from a tall building and making a sickening thunk at the bottom as bones crunched. He felt vaguely nauseous watching them.

He didn't think about Pete.

What he did think about was death.


	7. Seventeen

He was seventeen when Peter Kingston Wentz III saved his life.

He'd been released from the institution.

It had come as something that was a surprise, but not one at all, either. The thought of getting out of this place  was something Patrick didn't really care about. It all felt the same to him in the end. Life had stopped for Patrick Stump, basically. There was some monotony in it all, days didn't feel real when every day at the institution was exactly the same. Wake up, breakfast, medication, talk, lunch, stare at a wall, talk, routine exercise, dinner, stare at a wall, sleep. Wake up, breakfast, medication, talk, lunch, stare at a wall, talk, routine exercise, dinner, throw up, stare at a wall, sleep.

Rinse, repeat. Turquoise. Blue. Cyan.

He just didn't care anymore.

He might as well be dead, anyway.

Except today, at a time before his scheduled wakeup time but after he'd woken to stare at the wall and not think of anything but colour for a few hours, one of the orderlies unlocked the door to his room (cell). Patrick had eyed him warily, and the man had done the same for a solid minute with nervous tapping echoing in his mind before motioning for him to get up. The orderlies had been warned that he was occasionally violent, but that was only because one of the patients had tripped him.

Hayley had grasped his hands excitedly and told him the news, that he was out. Patrick didn't know what his face told her, but he nodded at her and she was in a whirl of business, gifting him with a case for the load of nothing he owned. She had also placed a Milky Way in his open palm, and he didn't understand why it was there but he had taken it nonetheless. Her second gift, not counting the plethora of proverbs spilling from her lips, was a flimsy cardboard box the size of his hand. When he met her bright gaze questioningly she grinned.

< _Why_? > he signed to her, hands like the clacking of a keyboard.

Her grin got wider. "Because you need it. I'll help, if you want."

He felt that perhaps she knew something he didn't, but didn't question it.

So he allowed her hands on him, flinched because he couldn't help it even though her fingers were tiny and delicate and he could barely feel it. It was...surprisingly okay, even if he didn't quite understand. Her words helped, soft and gentle like a pale lavender, and while he sat on the side of the bath she played music on her phone. When the Bowie came on he hummed along tentatively, and Hayley joined in, tapping her fingernails gently on an empty bottle.

"Have you ever considered singing?"

He shook his head, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

Hayley smiled. "You have a good voice," she said.

Then it was time to go.

His mother hadn't come to pick him up.

Not that he'd expected her to, after all, it wasn't like he'd seen the woman in more than a year. Apparently he was supposed to still be living at home, however. He wasn't sure he wanted to go back. Hayley had informed him he was nearly eighteen, come to think of it. Of age, as they called it. It didn't mean much to him in the end. He'd missed his seventeenth, additionally.

And somehow, he couldn't make himself care.

The insitution was on the other side of town from his supposed living quarters, so he walked down the streets in borrowed, itchy and far too large jeans and a plain black shirt, hair drying from the warm breeze and feathering across his face. No one paid him any mind, didn't stop or talk to him.

It was wonderful.

He stopped at the local chemist, bought a couple of razors and some painkillers with the meager change in his pockets. He wasn't sure why they'd released him all of a sudden, but he didn't like it. And he didn't want it. There was only one thing he wanted to do with his freedom. He found an alleyway, dark and kind of bad smelling, but it didn't matter, as he settled against a rough wall, ignoring the way it scratched his back even through the thin fabric of the shirt, and opened his shopping bag.

He'd do it right this time. No mistakes. No second chances. No wasting time.

He had the razor to his wrist, poised to slice into his flesh, when he saw it.

Facing across from him was a dirty pamphlet taped to the wall, nearly falling off but staying valiantly. It looked like it had been done in a few minutes, nearly illegible and honestly the worst poster Patrick had ever seen.

But.

The razor dropped to the floor with a clatter from his suddenly numb fingers.

Because there, on the worst sign he'd seen in his life, this absolutely _fucking shit piece of notebook paper ripped from a journal_ , was that strangely familiar handwriting, and the reason he'd been released was now obvious. Why Hayley had been smiling. Why when he'd mentioned Pete last week she'd smiled, then.

_Singer wanted 4 pop punk band,_ it said. _Must b patient + cute. Call Pete Wentz 4 deets._

"Pete," he said, voice sharp-sounding in the silence.

"Fucking _Pete,"_ he said again, for good measure.

Because that was the handwriting that belonged to Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III. The apparently very much _real_ Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III.


	8. Eighteen

He was eighteen when he admitted he was in love with _Pete_ , not Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, just Pete.

Of course, he'd torn away the contact number he'd found on the sheet, had taken it to his mother's house. The woman had just stared at him as if he were some kind of crimson coloured being so he ignored her, making his way up to the office to use the phone. When he had safely locked himself inside the small room, only then did he pick up the phone and poke at the buttons until it dialled. It took a few long seconds to get an answer, time that had Patrick's ears ringing with stress and worry and pent-up emotions that he couldn't name.

Then he picked up.

"'llo, Wentz? Who is this?"

It was him.

It was really _him_.

Oh God.

"I thought you were imaginary so I tried to kill myself and you weren't there and the doctor got jailed and I _dyed my hair_ ," he babbled in a distressed voice to the phone, other hand tugging at the white-blonde strands so hard it hurt.

There was a long silence, and then the beep of the dial tone.

He'd been hung up on. And even though he was inept for the most part, he knew that was a bad thing. So he sat down in the corner of the room, knees pulled up to his chest, and breathed. Everything slowed down, until it felt like he was breathing in molasses and the sounds of his heartbeat thudding at his chest like it wanted to break out were the only things in his mind. He froze.

The doorbell rang.

The world stopped.

He heard his mother's shocked voice when she opened the door downstairs. And then he heard _his voice_.

"Who in the heavens are you and what do you want?" His mother didn't sound happy.

Patrick defrosted.

Patrick slammed open the door to the office, slid across the hallway, reached the bottom of the stairs at a run and nearly fell on his face, and wow, wouldn't that have been an entrance. Colours blurred behind his glasses in messy smears as their eyes met.

And _fuck,_ he was just as goddamn beautiful as he'd been before.

"The name's Pete. Pete Wentz. And I've come to talk to your son."

Ignoring Patrick's mother's gasp, he nudged the woman aside like she was nothing, absolutely nothing, and made his way to Patrick. As Patrick struggled to squeeze air back into his ineffective lungs, Pete flashed him that smile and got on one knee. Patrick stared down at him in wonder, struck once again by how beautiful he was, not even in his physical looks, but in that expression and the bright glint in his eyes.

"Blonde, huh?"

Patrick nodded in a quick jerking motion that pulled a laugh from Pete. And oh, oh man, his ears would never stop yearning for that noise, it was better than pianos and drums and fucking Bowie. Fuck Bowie. He loved Pete more than Bowie.

"I love you," Patrick said suddenly, like it had been punched from him.

"Love you too, Stump," Pete said back, not missing a beat. "But hey, I've got a question to pop that I've been waiting to ask for years."

"Patrick Stump," he continued, still grinning like he was trying to eclipse the sun and it was working, "would you consider marrying a dumbass like me?"

Patrick couldn't stop the sob among the laugh as he held out his left hand for Pete to slip the neat little ring with the myriad of colours on it, creams and fuschias and silvers onto his finger. Pete laughed again too, standing up, and Patrick could see the tears through the mist of his own.

"Run away with me, Wendy," he said against Patrick's lips.

Patrick nodded frantically, closing his eyes as he breathed the word.

"Yes."

_*author note:_   
_If you made it this far, well done. This short little thing got far more attention than I expected which was a little strange for me, but thank you. I don't believe in unhappy endings when you can write a happy one; it's natural to seek happiness even if it's not yours. Inspirational songs were Armistice by Phoenix and Flaws by Bastille._

_All in all, hope you enjoyed._   
_If you've got any ideas, send them to me. I do prompts._


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